


stranger danger

by joisattempting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Aid, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Mild Blood, Teenlock, english breakfasts, harry and clara are mentioned, he also has a toy bee, his mom's name is anne lmao, john has a dickhead stepfather, john is from suffolk, parks???, pls this is my second time writing sherlock be nice i'm sensitive, sherlock can't sit still, sherlock just lives there, there are probably so many medical inaccuracies in this oh my GOD, which i stole from a fanfic so credits to whoever came up with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisattempting/pseuds/joisattempting
Summary: needing to get out of the house, john heads for the park, fully intending to go back after an hour or so. the universe has other ideas.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	stranger danger

**Author's Note:**

> WOOO OKAY I'M ALIVE  
> so uh after a mild identity crisis, the rise and fall of my motivation, my birthday, and some other shit, i've returned to the land of fanfiction writing. i don't know when i'll update the historical falsettos au, or if i ought to just delete it, but i am looking to broaden my horizons and write for other things i'm into! that being said, i hope i'm able to write more sherlock content without four-month-long breaks lmao. i actually had a lot of fun writing this, so i hope you enjoy it! touch-starved/fluff is my SHIT.
> 
> have yourselves a wonderful day or night, and go sign some petitions!
> 
> yours faithfully,  
> jo :)
> 
> (also uhh if there are medical inaccuracies in this, no there aren't <3)
> 
> tw for blood, alcoholism and abuse!!

The slam of the wooden front door wasn’t the only noise present in the Watson house that night. Amidst the cacophonous crash of bourbon bottles against the distasteful burnt orange kitchen tiles concurrently detested by each inhabitant, and the desperate screaming that rang through every sparsely-decorated room and ricocheted like penetrating bullets off peeling walls as thin as paper, not a soul noticed the youngest of the household tugging his hereditary coat on over his lint-riddled jumper and slipping wordlessly out the door. Stepping out onto the silent patio, he scrubbed at his swimming blue-grey eyes until angry crimson rimmed them in prominent circles. The absence of any form of noise was an unwarranted kick in the stomach to John, whose ears had gradually grown accustomed to degrading words and snivelling and distressed squalls of pain deriving from behind doors that his stepfather had made a spectacle of bolting firmly shut, concealing whatever ominous and barbaric proceedings that took place behind it, and leaving the reason behind them up to the wild imaginations of the blond boy and his plucky older sister, whose golden curls were occasionally interrupted by a rogue bald patch that derived from the copious amount of times her hair was tugged on if she just so happened to wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

But Harry was away at university now, and John could make a hesitant deduction that, from the photos he was sent, she appeared to be embarking upon the long and winding road to recovery from the hurts of the past, wounds becoming scabs as she took time away from their poverty-stricken Suffolk hometown to bask in the bustle and blinding light of London. John knew his sister on a far deeper scale than even their mother, however, and therefore was certain that she couldn’t have become the grinning twenty-year-old with laughing eyes and fishnet tights that looked as though they’d been cut at the knee intentionally, by herself. Thus, the boy hazarded another guess that the woman accompanying her in the photos - a kind-faced girl with dark hair cascading in subtle brown ringlets past her shoulders and brilliant sapphire eyes - Clara, was that her name? She acted as the girl’s confidant and friend, someone to rejoice with her in high times, and card a hand through her hair while Harry sobbed into a shirt she didn’t mind tossing in the laundry basket afterward. 

His sister even went as far as to say that they were dating. John didn’t mind. In fact, he was relieved that she seemed to be turning the pages of the Life of Harry Josephine Watson, and concluding the chapter that contained her less-than-ideal childhood, and tried his hardest to pointedly ignore the pang of envy that bloomed in his chest at the mere mention of the brunette’s name. He’d never been one for relationships; you’d have to be on drugs to believe that someone would actively desire the romantic partnership of Harry’s placid, quiet baby brother who wore frumpy sweaters and bottled up his emotions until the last second, when the pressure became too great and it all came spewing out in strings upon strings of profanity. Always the spoilsport that stayed home and revised for his impending exams than drink until his mind resembled the sky prior to a rainstorm. Always the courageous soul who shoved the jeering boys of his year against the walls when they taunted the Year Sevens, and whose polite mannerisms were praised endlessly by family members at holiday gatherings. Just ordinary. Just John. 

Inhaling sharply, he shook his head with vigour to rid his mind of the clamouring intrusive thoughts that so often clouded it, and walked until his thatched-roof house was but a dark speck in the far distance and the neighbourhood park, sinister and enigmatic as the sky’s darkness enveloped its gnarled trees and rusted swingsets, slowly appeared in his hazy line of vision. John swiped at his eyes again; he didn’t exactly want the local gangs and thugs to notice his sniffles or tears. Uncouth and pugnacious, they were nocturnal animals that materialised at late hours to smoke and whisper amongst themselves. About what, John was blissfully ignorant, but he was aware that they were unafraid to rough up any who dared to pester them, and thus he zipped his lips and forced down his sobs and kept his movements quiet and calculated as he advanced through the sleeping Ipswich neighbourhoods. 

The park was the optimal place for gathering one’s wits and taking a breather. Wind sailed happily through the air, creating a breeze that wasn’t undetectable, but also not extreme, and the park rangers didn’t pester you if you strolled in after the alleged closing time engraved on the ancient wooden sign at the entrance. Zipping up the coat with a disdainful glance at his sister’s initials that had been embroidered on the breast pocket, John set a course for the park, attempting to appear as inconspicuous as possible. About three-quarters of his wardrobe consisted of hand-me-downs from Harry that were remotely unisex: jumpers, striped shirts that she was never seen in absence of in her youth, coats in neutral hues, the odd pair of jeans every now and again, even her old school blazers from before she graduated. He didn’t like them very much, particularly due to the fact that they swamped his slender figure and the jumpers covered his calloused and cut hands and he couldn’t count how often he’d stumble over the hem of the jeans his sister had since sized out of. Nonetheless, they held some form of warmth and nostalgia that was always welcomed, especially when things concerning his mother and his stepdad manifested into something unbearable. Whether or not it was due to Harry’s worsening latch to alcohol, the Watson siblings had been arguing more often than not lately, but at least John was able to hear the sound of her voice. The sound of someone that grounded him, that calmed him, even if it took the form of her calling him a pretentious dick. 

He ambled towards the vast green park, the stubby blond hairs at the back of his neck standing as straight as pencils as the whistling wind coursed through his uncombed straw hair, penetrating his thin, pathetic coat and producing goosebumps on his spindly arms. The park ranger tipped her wide-brimmed hat in the boy’s direction, and he returned the gesture with a tight smile, cheeks flushing pink with humiliation at the awkward encounter. Deceased brown leaves crunched under his fraying, worn trainers. Keeping his head parallel to the ground, John continued his traverse through the park until his aching feet happened upon the spot he always sat in whenever a clearing of the head was required. It was a patch of grass, dark and sheltered underneath the solicitous autumnal boughs, where he could sit and collect his scattered thoughts for a while. Allow his panicked breathing to regulate before he felt he had regained the sufficient mental capacity required in order to brave going home again. John exhaled with relief as his back slid against the scratchy, cracking tree bark. He could finally hear himself think, and there weren’t any stepdads to interfere in his business. 

The slow but sure regression of the Watson household was a process he hadn’t noticed for much of his life - it wasn’t until he was around twelve and Harry fifteen that he had began to sense that something about the amount of times he visited the emergency room for broken bones, his mother’s tears as she assembled a messy dinner, or when she clutched them both to her heaving chest as they readied themselves for the annual family photograph in the upstairs bathroom. Hamish Reuben Watson, his father and Anne’s loving husband, had passed due to illness when John was four. Before then, their house was a jolly one, full of laughter and games and baking. John smiled sorrowfully to himself, enveloped by the park’s consoling darkness as he remembered Friday night dinners from the chippy round the corner, eventful visits from his six uncles, toddling around the garden in Harry’s old, bright-red rubber boots and a bucket hat from his varied selection, his tufts of sandy hair peering out from beneath it, and playing airplane with his father, accidentally knocking his glasses off his face in the process. Just after his sister’s ninth birthday, Anne was wed again, and suddenly her tears were not only out of grief for her late husband. 

It was November. He would turn eighteen next August. It felt like forever, but in the grand scheme of time, nine months was just the blink of an eye. 

John was pulled back to reality by the irritating noise of what sounded like a handful of boys from one of the local gangs sneering at one of their victims. Normally, John would have begrudgingly disregarded it, either plugging his ears or shoving his earbuds in and blasting his music until he was rendered temporarily deaf in one ear. On other days, he’d clench his fists until his knuckles grew white and grit his teeth as he marched on over to them, not even growling out a sentence in before he was socked in the jaw. However, he never seemed to learn that all his attempts to get the local thugs to shut up had been in vain and that he should really just drop it, and thus John scrambled to his weary feet and crunched across the park once more to where the shouting seemed to be deriving from; all the way in one far corner. 

Just as he was approaching the general vicinity to give the boys a piece of his mind about _being considerate of other people,_ he was met with nothing but grass and bushes and a rogue streetlamp planted around the place. Whoever had been around previously had soon since legged it, likely back home or to one of the multiple dark corners between houses where the groups commonly lurked. Satisfied with the park’s restored tranquil silence, John made for his place under the tree again, only for his foot to make contact with seemingly nothing, and he plummeted to the grass with a winded “Shit!”

“Do watch where you’re going next time,” a sarcastic, silky baritone sputtered under his breath. For a fleeting moment, John felt his soul depart from his body. In any other circumstance, he would have screamed for the entire county of Suffolk to hear. What separated this situation from the rest, he wasn’t sure, but the blond settled for a moody scowl as he heaved himself into a sitting position, rubbing the twinging area where his shoulder had been impacted most severely by the ground. 

“Sorry, what?” was his only response, before laughing airily at himself as he brushed leaves from his jacket. “What are you doing, John? There’s fucking nothing there, it’s not like the park is haunted, you big dumbarse,”

“As a matter of fact, there is something, or rather some _one_ here, you big dumbarse,” the baritone quipped back, the last portion of the sentence being said in a rather convincing imitation of the blond boy. Subsequent to a brief period of rustling leaves and grunting, a slender figure sat up opposite John. His features were hardly discernible in the twilight, but under the faint orange glow of the streetlamp he could just about recognise a boy he’d seen wandering the halls at school periodically, but had never learned the name of. His hair lay about his head in a mop of raven ringlets, standing in rather stark contrast to John’s cropped waves. His eyes, glimmering in the dim light projecting from the feeble streetlamps, fascinated the other boy. Green in some lights, blue in others, they weren’t difficult to lose oneself in as you explored the universe that was their pale blue-green colour, and the galaxies that lay beyond the faint flecks of golden brown situated more towards the pupil. What struck him most, however, was the scarlet liquid trickling down the side of his gaunt face, originating from a bloody gash near his hairline. His knuckles, too, were shrouded in blood. 

John scratched his head, wincing at the thick tension settling like dust between the pair sitting on the grass. “Uh, are you-”

“Harry Watson,”

“Sorry, what?” he repeated. 

“Is that a favourite phrase of yours? You do seem to say it a lot,” the boy said, and sighed as though John were being a nuisance. Truth be told, in this person’s eyes, he probably was. Blowing errant curls from the eyes that the blond boy couldn’t seem to get over, he continued. “Harry Watson. That’s your name, judging by the embroidery on your coat pocket. Basic thread, bought from the corner shop. Handed-down trainers and shirt. So, not exactly wealthy. Accent and complexion says local, but your mother was from somewhere further west… Bristol, I reckon. The army cross around your neck was your father’s, who died when you were five - no, four. The fact that you still wear it, as opposed to keeping it somewhere safe for sentimental purposes, suggests you’re looking to enlist too. You don’t flinch at loud noises, but aren’t fond of them. As well as your eyebrows, this suggests you haven’t got the greatest home life, and are accustomed to them. Stepfather, I’d say,”

John’s mouth gaped open. He promptly shut it so as to not come across as even more unintelligent than he already perhaps had. “That was…”

“Annoying? I’m well aware,” the boy grumbled. 

“No, it was fantastic. Brilliant, if you ask me. How the hell d’you do that?”

“.... You really think so?” John could have sworn that the boy’s battered face brightened as he said this, and if he did, it was only for a cursory second or so. 

“Yeah, ‘course I do,” said the blond, as though his new friend’s query had pertained to the probability that the sky was blue. 

“Hm, that’s not what people usually say,”

“What do people usually say?”

He shrugged. “Fuck off. Or they’ll call me a freak. Rather boring, honestly. They really should come up with something more inventive,”

At this, John’s expression hardened, though his eyes remained kind and understanding. One would think that the masses would marvel at this boy’s intellect and frankly superhuman ability to determine a person’s entire background solely based on analysis of their physical appearance. Instead, he was ridiculed and dehumanised for his talents, and memories came flooding into the boy’s mind of the countless times the boy had wandered into the one lesson he’d only just realised they shared, with his hand bandaged or holding an ice pack to the side of his head. “Well, they’re being stupid,” John mumbled, his voice taut with anger. “You’re dead smart, from what I’ve seen. You shouldn’t listen to them, they’re just insecure about themselves and taking it out on someone more clever than them,”

The raven-haired boy stared up at him, his lips ever-so-slightly parted in what the other boy was inclined to identify as shock. The plausible notion that nobody had ever uttered such words towards him only fueled the angry fire crackling in the pit of his stomach. “Oh… thank you,”

“But you are a bit of a pretentious git,”

He smiled, albeit sarcastically. “That’s fair. Now, can we please leave? I believe I’m still bleeding,”

“Shit, yeah, of course,”

Helping the boy to his feet, the blond was adequately displeased upon discovering that his friend was considerably taller than he was. Together, the unlikely duo stumbled through the park and back into the endless sea of neighbourhoods, their only light originating from the warm, feeble glow of the streetlamps that cast queer-looking shadows upon the paved roads. John was given the address to the mystery boy’s location of residence, situated in the quieter, more lavish part of town a few blocks away, where the costly houses, each one identical to the next, stood with poised superiority in neat rows on either side of a road flanked with skinny streetlamps and tidy, well-kept hedges. This wasn’t surprising, in the blond’s opinion at least - he didn’t take the other boy for one of the local kids, for his accent stated otherwise, as well as practically everything about him that John had bore witness to thus far. He made the educated assumption that the boy currently limping beside him, one arm thrown around his shoulders for added support, was a Londoner, but didn’t dare voice this thought out of fear of sounding stupid again. 

“Did I get anything wrong?” he piped out of nowhere, the sudden sound of his resonant voice nearly causing John to jump three feet in the air. 

“Hm?” John responded dumbly, more than slightly taken aback. 

“The deductions,” the boy prompted, as they rounded a corner. “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Ah, my name isn’t Harry. I’m John. Harry’s my sister, short for Harriet. This is her old coat,”

“Handmedowns, like the trainers and shirt. I should’ve known,” he mused. “There’s always something,”

“Hey, um, you never told me who you were?” the blond asked embarrassedly. Here he was, accompanying a boy home and fully intending to, if permitted, remain there to tend to wounds however he was capable, as well as while away the hours until he knew his mother would fret over his whereabouts. And yet, throughout the course of their brief companionship (could he call it that?), he’d never been so curious as to ask his name. 

“Sherlock Holmes. It’s a pleasure,” the boy said, and John very nearly awoke the United Kingdom in its entirety with the good-natured laugh that bubbled in his throat. The taller of the pair - God, he was called _Sherlock_ \- allowed a genuine smile to creep upon his lips, and all of a sudden the Suffolk streets rang with the tinkling laughter of the most unlikely friends to ever exist. 

John gasped for the breezy air, gulping it down like water as his face, flushed with amusement, returned to its typical colouring. “What kind of name is Sherlock Holmes?”

“My parents were always ones for outlandish names. My brother’s called Mycroft, though I prefer ‘fat pig’,” Sherlock muttered, with a perfect deadpan that had been acquired through years of practice on his parents and pestering older brother. 

“How very eloquent of you,”

And just like that, they stuttered to a clumsy halt in front of an opulent house, standing with an air of affluence in some nearby neighbourhood that John hadn’t been bothered to learn the name of until that night. Stumbling through the driveway and kicking off their shoes at the door, Sherlock handed the blond what must have been the house key, patterned with delicate intricacies. The lock clicked open, and they were greeted by darkness and a comfortable quiet. A faint light poured into the hallway from the open door that led into the Holmeses’ kitchen. The duo exchanged knowing glances, but composed themselves when an (admittedly) rotund young man wandered into the hall, trying his best to be discreet as he swiped the back of his hand along the corner of his mouth, which twisted into a sardonic grin that matched Sherlock’s previous one entirely. Perhaps it was hereditary, the Holmes brothers’ apparent flair for trenchancy. 

“Who’s this, Sherlock?” the man said, not even sparing the confused blond a glance. “Is this a little pet of yours you plan on dragging about to solve your crimes?”

“No. He’s a friend,” the younger brother muttered, as though he were making a humiliating confession. 

“Sherlock, when will you understand? We don’t have _friends._ They only slow you down with feelings and other such notions. Having friends isn’t an advantage,”

Unable to comprehend what he was hearing, John opened his mouth to retort, but was pinched by the arm of Sherlock’s that was draped around his shoulders. “I… uh, I found your brother in the park? I think some of the, um, the local boys must’ve… roughed him up a bit,” he decided to say instead, beginning to think his presence was very much not desired. “I’m- I’m John. Watson. John Watson,”

“Charmed, I’m sure. Mycroft Holmes. I’m the one who has the great fortune of being Sherlock’s older brother,” the oldest of the group’s grin only seemed to widen, if that was possible. “What is he doing here?” he hissed in his brother’s direction. 

“I can leave, if you like,” John spat, uncovering the buried sarcasm that was saved solely for his stepdad and sister. 

“John stays,” was the next sentence that came from Sherlock’s swelling lips, the words kicking John in the stomach for what seemed to be the millionth time that night. 

“What?”

“John stays. Would you like me to say it in French?” the boy said irritably, and smirked as smugly as he was able with his split lip at the man’s defeated look. “This remains between us, Mycroft. You wouldn’t want Mummy to find out where her anniversary cake went, would you?”

His older brother scowled, folding his arms across his chest as John, shoulders shaking slightly in his mirth, began leading his friend up the stairs. 

Sherlock’s bedroom, which could be more accurately described as ‘the unfortunate result of a one night stand between a library and a laboratory that went horribly wrong’, was convivial and homely. The dulcifying aroma of yellowing books and honey filled the air, and John’s mind relaxed considerably as he set his friend delicately upon the duvet, boards and springs whining underneath his meager weight. Posters and infographics of all sorts were tacked with haphazardness to the beige walls: butterflies, toadstools, snails, a variety of swords, pirate ships, and a notable amount depicting scientific diagrams of bees. Books of both fiction and fact - some leatherbound, others hardcover - were strewn about like stars in the sky. It was apparent that Sherlock possessed little to no regard for the presentation or cleanliness of his bedroom. However, his desk, located near the door at the front of the room, was by far the most disorderly. Papers littered the workspace, as did pencils and pens. In one corner, a skull stood with arrogant supremacy on top of an overflowing organising bin, indicating some attempt at cleaning up, but that appeared to have been thrown to the wind relatively quickly. Pictures of strangers and newspaper clippings were pinned to a corkboard hung above the desk, some connected by yarn or suggestive arrows marked in red pen, akin to those John had seen on the crime shows he and Harry would watch religiously in secret. But in spite of the mess and the nonchalant presence of far too many safety hazards for it to be legal, the room was intimate, like someone actually lived in it. The same couldn’t exactly be said about his own bedroom. After seeing this, John loathed his checked bedspread, the pound notes stuffed under the mattress, the hole in the wall, the cracked looking-glass clinging by a thread to his wardrobe door for dear life. 

But now wasn’t the time for wallowing in self-pity. Carding a hand through his cropped hair, John sighed, focusing his wavering attention on Sherlock. Probably in too great pain to execute any form of movement, he had not strayed from the bed, and instead had elected to stare confusedly at him. To his chest he nuzzled a crocheted toy bee; undoubtedly a favourite childhood toy with which he’d never been able to break the emotional attachment built over the years. Now that John could see him properly, he really did look worse for wear. His eye was a site of carnage, bruising a dangerous purple as his lid swelled. Originating from the gash at his hairline, blood had dried along the side of his face, more of the scarlet liquid soiling the pressed collar of his shirt. 

Fighting back the extremely tempting urge to hurl whoever had been sick enough to beat him up out a window, John cleared his throat, tugging at a loose thread on his jumper. It was a nervous habit, and he couldn’t count how many perfectly-decent articles of clothing he’d ruined in expense. “Where do you keep your first aid kit?” he blurted, and pulled even harder on the thread as punishment for his ability to appear even marginally apt in social situations, or lack thereof. “I know a touch of first aid, maybe I could help with, uh, those?” Here, he made a vague gesture towards his own facial features. 

“I know. You want to become an army doctor,” Sherlock said idly, stroking the fabric of the toy he held. “Medicine cabinet, downstairs bathroom. Mummy keeps the key under the rug, but she doesn’t know I know that. Beware of Mycroft,”

“Duly noted,” John grinned, offering the boy a two-fingered mock salute and looking slightly dumbfounded, before releasing himself from the inviting clutches of the beige bedroom and dashing down the stairs, the incredulous smile never leaving his face. In his lighthearted impetuosity, he nearly tripped over his own two feet en route to the Holmeses’ downstairs bathroom. 

_Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of bewildering,_ was John’s only thought, eyes scouring the stocked cabinet for something that looked remotely like a first aid kit. He couldn’t stall, however, because it was a marvel that the boy upstairs hadn’t passed out due to lightheadedness or blood loss, and the blond would prefer that it remained so, thank you very much. The aforementioned whim was closely followed by one of a rather self-deprecating nature as John’s head continued to elevate the tall and slender boy he’d only just met that night onto some form of pedestal; he couldn’t for the life of him think why Sherlock seemed to be tolerating him. For John… what was John, in comparison to such a bright and intellectual creature? Everything about him - his hair, the manner in which he dressed himself, his perception of the world and the people residing in it - was so, appallingly ordinary. The only aspect of his life that seemed to draw a shred of attention from others was his family, and while their pity was excruciatingly painful to take, John appreciated it underneath his unbothered and mildly annoyed exterior. He was somewhat intelligent when it came to schoolwork, yes, and he played for the school rugby team, and possessed some degree of common sense, but he couldn’t help but think how irrelevant and bumbling and incompetent he was. Who wouldn’t, when you had a mind like that?

“He does like you, you know,” a cool voice behind him said, and the blond turned around to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, his portly figure forming more of an eerie silhouette. “My brother. He does like you,”

At this, John ventured an airy, humourless chuckle. “Well, if you’re going around thinking like that, then I’m afraid I know him better than you do. What’s there to like so much about me? Besides, we’ve only just met,”

“Good to see we’re on the same page, John Watson,”

The boy furrowed his brows, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. A challenging look adorning his features, he glowered up at the man, and realised a fraction of a second subsequent to this that his stance would have given off an infinitely more menacing impression had he stood at a height greater than five foot four. “Sorry, what the bloody fuck are you talking about?”

“You’ve only just met,” Mycroft said simply. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, John,” he continued, his words accompanied by a patronising smile. “Only a small minority are willing to indulge Sherlock,”

“Why’s that? He’s a decent bloke, even if he is a bit of...” John trailed off briefly. “Bit of an oddball,”

“People don’t tend to like him because of his _capabilities._ When he was five, he told his primary school teacher that her husband was having an affair, and diagnosed one of our neighbours with emphysema at one of Mummy’s insufferable garden parties. It was fairly obvious that he was correct, but I suspect the man wasn’t very appreciative of the gesture, even when he received confirmation from his doctor,” 

The younger of the pair shook his head fondly. “What a dick,” 

“And yet, you found him in the park and bothered to take him home, and now you’re treating his wounds,”

“Well, I like to think I’m not totally heartless, Mycroft,”

“He called you a friend. Sherlock knows he doesn’t have friends,”

“He was just saying that to get you off his tail, you nosey prick,” John spat, finally locating the first aid kit and tucking it aggressively under his arm. 

“Of course, of course. Silly me,” Mycroft said, in the condescending tone he seemed to enjoy frequenting. “Go about with what you were doing, don’t let me stop you,”

More than anything else on the planet, perhaps even including his stepfather, John despised putting forth an enquiry to Mycroft concerning the possibility of him using the kitchenware. 

Several minutes later, the chipping door that led to Sherlock’s bedroom, left ajar at the shorter boy’s departure, was kicked open. Appearing in the doorway was John, tongue protruding slightly from his chapped lips in concentration, gripping the sides of a tray with the first aid kit still tucked under his arm. 

“I-I figured you might like something to eat…? Mum made a brilliant English if I wasn’t feeling too great. Always made me feel better,”

Normally, Sherlock would have refused. He only ate when critically necessary, and anything else was just transport. Anyway, he was alright for the moment, as it was only Wednesday yet. “Thank you,” he said nonetheless, because there was something about the boy’s hopeful expression that automatically criminalised the act of refusing him. 

Setting the tray in Sherlock’s lap, John began unpacking the contents of the surprisingly-extensive first aid kit. He discovered that the battered, dark-haired kid in front of him fidgeted constantly, and was alien to the notion of sitting still, with John softly instructing him to do so every thirty seconds to the extent that he wondered if Sherlock was doing it deliberately. Even so, his gash was cleaned, his head bandaged and his eye treated to the best of John’s ability, and he was currently stabbing at a sausage and protectively clutching his bee simultaneously. 

“Ah, I’ll do it. You rest,” John interjected, prying the fork from the boy’s grasp. “Budge up a bit closer, not everyone’s got your gangliness. Seriously, you look like a motherfucking lamppost,”

How John ended up with his arm tucked around the frail body of a stranger, feeding him sausages as they whispered about nothing and everything, he wasn’t fully certain. One might think that their encounter was a coincidence, an unplanned alignment of the stars. But the universe was rarely so lazy. What he did know, however, was that he wasn’t exactly complaining about it. 

“Can we stay like this for a little while?”

John could worry about his stepdad later. “We can stay like this for as long as you like,”

  
  


_fin._


End file.
